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us, when we would smile at the idea of writing in California. But it was too late. When a woman sits in the car listening to tapes, it’s too late.
    I walk almost to the second silver owl when Judith catches up. We step back onto the continent, cross the beach, and by the time we’re at the top of the stairs, she’s taken my arm. She doesn’t speak except to say, “David Niven’s dead,” as we cross the street and go into the King’s Head.
    At the table, it starts. Her face, and I see again that it is a good face, the only face, falls. When she leans forward to take her face in her hands, I can see the silver cartridge again and all the little red marks above her breasts where her jewelry had nicked her over the years. I remember that after she’d shower it looked like a light coral necklace there. “God, Doug,” she says. “I don’t know whether to go forward or backward anymore.” She’s about to cry.
    I feel the old numbness rise in my neck, the old bad confusion. I’m glad the girl has brought the wonderful brown beer, and I lift my glass in my hand. The beer is cool and sweet.
    â€œJudith,” I say.
    â€œDoug, remember that bitch at the Spaniards who wouldn’t serve us because we were five minutes late for pub hours?”
    â€œNo,” I say. There is no sense in starting. I could ask her now the name of that pub at Highgate, the coach stop, Judith would remember. But: no.
    The King’s Head is empty now: four o’clock. By seven, every English starlet on the coast will be in here. “Judith. Hey. Don’t cry.” I push her glass across so it just touches her elbow. “Judith. Here. Drink this. How about the turkey sandwich?”
    She nods, her head in her hands.
    â€œDon’t cry,” I say. “It’s possible to write a good movie. It’s a livable country. Judith, you are the most clever woman I ever met. But, you were right about that little guy. He doesn’t want the girl. He wants to run back and forth. He wants to jump the barrels and not get burned.”

OLYMPUS HILLS
    I LEFT the party early, finding my coat on the bed, surprising Karen and Darrel, who stood when I entered. “It’s funny,” I said, trying to ease their embarrassment, “but I know every coat in this pile.” I lifted Cindy’s rabbit fur jacket. “For five points. Careful: she does not wear this thing to work.”
    â€œCindy,” Karen said, her voice husky.
    I had just left Cindy in the kitchen. She and Tom were sitting on the counter drinking tequila and having a heart to heart. Whenever people drink tequila, they always talk about it, the worm, a war story or two, and then maybe mushroom experience and it’s a heart to heart. Cindy was wearing a white silk dress, sprayed with little red dots which turned out to be strawberries. I have been in these kitchens before and when Cindy hoists her bottom onto the kitchen counter and, nursing a tequila and lemon between her knees, starts telling drug experiences, it’s just enough. Even Tom sitting up there by her looked a little spent. He’s too big a guy to sit on a kitchen counter and look natural anyway.
    Karen and Darrel had forgotten to let go of each other’s hands and their faces were smashed red from all the kissing. They looked like the two healthiest people at the party. I was surprised, because I’d seen Karen with another guy from the firm, a programmer named Chuck who does our board overlays, at a dozen lunches in the last month. And I admired Darrel’s ability to struggle in there with Karen, while we could all hear his wife, Ellen, singing along with Tommy James and the Shondells in the other room. It was a small house for Olympus Hills.
    â€œVictor, Ted, Sharon, Tom, Ellen,” I said, laying the coats aside, until I found the tan raincoat. “Lisa,” I said, looking at it. The bed was a little archaeology